Sunday, August 19, 2018

Summer Crooning

All around the world the cicada rhythm sounds the same.

Feels the same, too.

The hot sweaty sing song lilt of a thousand plump little lovers all seeking, all hoping, some finding.

Unhidden is the desire they protect into the breeze, picked up on the wind a sound wave form that travels the same way in this country as the next, the song warm, and pulpy and beaty and pulsy and you fall into it a little as you listen.

The natural imploring sounds of desperation for love, for holding, for belonging, for contentedness, for now, for then, and for the future, future, future pulsing future of the only sort of immortality to be found.

The thrum hum humming lighting up the night under the same stars, in different lands, with oceans and rivers and streams and languages and the genetic composition of the varying locals interacting just the same, doing just the same, enjoying, annoying just the same to the backgroun hum hum hum thrumming that seems to never end in the late summer evening.

The sound travels like I do, traveling like I will, have been, will do again, the feel of that traveling.

The thrum hum humming sounds like the sounds of waking up in your new place.

It sounds like purpose.

It sounds like the wrapping togetherness.

It sound like unraveling.

All around the world the same sound.

Thursday, August 16, 2018

Hurricane History

Winds whipping through my brain at hurricane force carrying thoughts about the now and the then and the ever present and the thinking in the other realities. Who I am/was/is?

Remember that time you died going off that bridge in an unexpected blizzard when the roads weren't plowed. After you died you went home and woke your partner and tried to explain, but they said you were still here and it was time for you to go to bed and for them to wake up.

There is no eye to the storm. It's a spinning whirling tour of everything mashed together. Storm chasers are running around it trying to figure it out and unlock the secrets to prevent harm. This is impossible as there will always be harm. The history hurricane is a mish-mash of thoughts and weird and harm.

Remember that time you died when you were driving barefoot without a seatbelt and got hit by a semi-truck. Later, at the hospital they when you tried to explain, they asked if they could set your broken are with a pillow and the Twin Evils said yes because it saved them money, and now, when you ghost lifts weights you can feel the break in the dead arm that doesn't really exist.

Suddenly, it's all the moments when you cease to be and you don't recall why you are not ceasing to be. The storm is an open door to ever dimension and suddenly there is an awareness of everyone. I look through that door and I see all the me's. It reminds me of all the mes. Innana would understand. Ereshkigal, not so much. Enki is still pissed about it though.

Remember that time you died stepping off the corner, not looking both ways and the car honked so loudly just before the impact and you had less than a moment to really think about it. And then later, as you sat in a bar consoling yourself in chatter you felt bad for the driver and the damage to their car?

Swimming through the soup of memory mind and thinking all the thinking and all the times when it went straight off the rails. I remember wondering in awe, as I watch the winds spin, how very fortunate I am now. Am I now. Who is now.

This is now.


Remember that you died when you gave a stranger the key to your room and their only interest was in your slaughter. It started as a love fest and ended in your entrails strung from the lights and a cryptic teasing message painted in your blood. The police, entirely confounded in the morning, trying to find the hints of the crime somewhere when you insisted, but the body was gone and there was nothing to investigate, and the ghost of you was being ever unhelpful in generating a lead.

It's a rapid flow spinning up now.

You died in the water, don't you remember? When you believed you were a mermaid who could stay underwater forever. So vivid, walking into that patch of foggy water in a river in a holler on a hot summer morning when the chill from the overnight was still melting away. You swam out but you never swam back in.

You died that time you took taxi and watched as he road about time hell bent on making every light and because you were in another country you didn't care about seat-belts, even though they might have saved you. When you corpse arrived no one would listen to the story of your death, your resurrection, your you.

You died that night you walked the lost stranger to his hotel, boredom, curiosity, amusement. You do things for strange reasons and really only contemplate them later when your ghost passes through the veil and you wonder exactly how you managed to get yourself raped and murdered in a country with almost no rap and murder, but then again, he was a GI and he was only in for a visit and who were you anyway. The staff ignores your corpse because they are well trained and then understand.

You died. You died. You died.

You died when that car hit you after you threw yourself in the street in front of it. You just forgot because you were distracted by a piano recital the next day.

You died that time you cut yourself in the kitchen, but you forgot because of the yelling and the guilt and the shame being dumped on you by El Diablo Madre.

You died slipping down that cliff when you wanted the view. They told you not to lean so far. Your ghost argued all the way back to the hotel.

You died in that brightly colored ally on that dimly lit street. The boys behind you herding you into the gang you weren't looking for and didn't pay attention too.

The winds kick up and on them spinning ghosts and as they whip faster, and faster, and faster I can see through them. These lives, those lives, their lives, my life, all whipping up a storm that is pain and pleasure and amusement and the sorrow sleep memory of continuing reality. The storm spins and takes shape and there.

There at the center.

There I stand.

Remembering that time I died.

And lived.

Friday, August 03, 2018


The day had gone fine, all told. Meetings were meetings, the overall day ran a little long, but in the end an average, pretty Thursday with pleasant late summer Chicago weather, so there was no good reason that I should have a depressive anxiety episode, and yet, I realized shortly after I finished walking the dogs that I was on my way down the rabbit hole whether I wanted to be or not. I thought perhaps going out to eat at the local pub would help, but feeling only more isolated and alone, I ended the night back home in bed before the sun had set.

And so it was.

There is a weird challenge in trying to communicate what it's like to have these things happen. That there is some part of the functional, perfectly normal human side of me that asks "What the fuck, seriously, like, if you know you are getting upset do something else." Maybe that's just the internal voice that contributes the dialogue I don't need of the judgmental other. I get that voice all the time, episodes or not.

If you have had a friend who is not neurotypical, or someone like me who is actually neurotypical but who has suffered high (seriously fucking high) trauma and you may be curious what this is like. How is it that someone who is otherwise a contributing member of society can't just not be anxious or depressed when a situation is perfectly normal.

This morning, after a solid workout, while making coffee, I stood finding myself trying to explain. Maybe to explain it to me. I want to know what happened to me yesterday. Don't I know, shouldn't I have that kind of insight into my own brain at this point, in my early forties? My brain and I have been together long enough that you'd think we have that basic work function of getting through a perfectly average day without creating internal trauma; that should be a breeze, right?

For me, it's just not that simple. It's more like having a headache, with the varying tiers of headache experience you may go through. There are those days where everything is just ducky and you suddenly feel that tickle above your right eye and you know its coming, and its coming fast, and if you take a pill right now you might, maybe, be okay and get out of it this time. There are days when you have been working flat out, perfectly reasonable, happily sound, and suddenly you just want to close your eyes and hide because that headache just opened up and dropped on you out of nowhere and nothing you do at this point is going to make it any better and you know.

Then there are the days that you feel it coming, you take something for it, and you know that the best strategy would be to relax in bed but you have already committed yourself to getting through the thing you have agreed to do, and now you are trying to do the thing while balancing the pain.

Worst, perhaps, is when you have been working but everything is going to shit, nothing is coming out right, the calculations are all wrong and you can't figure out why this is happened when suddenly it dawns on you that you have a massive headache that you missed because it snuck in and built up so creepily that it was already level 7 dangerzone before you even realized it was there.

Varying stages of depressive anxiety are very much like the varying types of headaches one may have. Sometimes you can take something for it and it works, sometimes there is nothing you can do, it's already too late, or you have committed and have to push through regardless. And sometimes, you don't even know until you've done something you will regret, that you can't take back, that you may or may not be able to apologize for, that you may or may not live through.

So far, I've managed not to tick a box I can't untick, but not without leaving an assorted swath of bodies in the wake of my anxiety, not to mention several parts of myself sometimes that feel like they are incomplete because of the pain that is a part of who I am.